Being a knight is not easy

Chapter 253 The Old Era

Robin continued to tap his fingertips lightly on the table, his mind rapidly processing all the possible scenarios.

Robin muttered to himself, “The probability of surrendering in surrounding territories has increased by 35%, the serf uprising rate has increased by 78%, and the failure rate of the third conscription in Shengmingsu Province is 92%…” He looked up at the Ghost General, his eyes filled with shock.

If this plan succeeds, the wise and virtuous Governor of Su Province will be within easy reach.

The ghost general suddenly knelt on one knee, black mist seeping from the gaps in his armor: "Your subordinate requests to personally lead the first wave of attack! After all, the amount of honey needs to be precisely controlled. One more drop, and the nobleman may die on the spot; one less drop, and the torture will not be effective enough."

The ghost general's eyes were filled with longing: "My lord, entrust this task to me!"

Robin paused for a moment, then looked out the window.

The roar of the hydraulic forging hammer suddenly became rapid, as if it were a rousing war drumbeat for the impending torrent of steel.

Robin's gaze was resolute: "Alright! You'll lead the team. Remember, I want more than just land; I want the hearts of the people. We must fight this battle beautifully, and we must fight it in a way that makes the entire continent tremble!"

The Ghost General quickly led a group of elite troops away, including his loyal follower Andisu.

His departure did not attract much attention, and even those who realized the Ghost General's disappearance tacitly refrained from mentioning him.

Viscount Wilke stood on the high platform in the furnace area, the scorching hot wind whipping his cloak.

Before them, twelve blast furnaces spewed out crimson flames, and in front of each furnace stood twenty shirtless craftsmen.

Their movements as they operated the robotic arms were perfectly synchronized, like those of well-trained soldiers.

"Is this really a forging workshop?"

The viscount's voice was drowned out by the roar of gears meshing. He saw it with his own eyes:

The red-hot steel billet is fed into the hydraulic press by a conveyor belt.

A three-meter-high forging hammer was struck down at a frequency of sixty times per minute.
The finished breastplates emerged one after another from the polishing tank like a flowing stream.
Every thirty seconds, a set of armor adorned with bauhinia flower patterns is created.

Robin casually picked up the wristband that had just cooled down, twisted it into a pretzel shape under the Viscount's astonished gaze, and threw it back into the furnace: "Defective product, just melt it down."

“These,” the viscount said, his fingertips brushing against the pile of arrows, not even feeling the burn, “are enough to arm a duchy.”

"To be precise, there are three."

Robin opened the system interface, and production capacity data flashed in the air:
Monthly output:
Cavalry cuirass: 2200 sets

Armor-piercing arrows: 18
Buzzing Heavy Crossbow: 400 units

Suddenly, the sound of a ship's horn came from afar.

On the newly built railcar, fully armed miners are dumping iron ore into the feed inlet.

Those former serfs now operate machines more sophisticated than knights' swords.

"Father should take a look at this."

Robin suddenly pressed the control lever.

The largest furnace suddenly erupted with purple flames, and the Horn Heart crystal core suspended in the center of the furnace was transforming tons of iron ore into an alloy mixed with demon-slaying steel.

The viscount's pupils reflected eerie purple flames, and he finally understood why the Ghost General dared to lead only five hundred men into battle.

This workshop itself is the most terrifying war machine.

Viscount Wilke's boots sank deep into the mud outside the workshop, making a dull "plop" sound.

He frowned instinctively, bent down to pull out his boot, but the moment his fingertips touched the "soil," his pupils suddenly contracted.

The seemingly ordinary soil was actually mixed with fine iron filings, which gleamed with a cold metallic luster in the setting sun. The entire land had been soaked by industry, and the air was filled with the pungent smell of rust and sulfur.

In the distance, the outline of Pioneer Town appeared and disappeared in the steam, like a mysterious castle floating in a sea of ​​clouds.

The viscount squinted. The rising smoke was no longer the warm smoke of the past, but the white mist spewing from the newly built grain drying tower.

Filled with doubt and shock, the Viscount moved to the farmland area.

He bent down and picked up a purple melon seedling; the heavy feel made his fingers tremble slightly.

These crops are larger and grow more densely than the purple gourds of the past.

“Father, this is the newest variety of purple melon, which I call Purple Melon No. 3. Its yield is twice that of the original purple melon.” Robin’s voice came from behind him. His sword tapped the ground lightly, producing a hollow echo from the ceramic tube. “Even in the dry season, it can guarantee three harvests a year.”

The viscount looked up and saw several serfs operating metal tubes with anchor patterns. With a "click," the metal tubes simultaneously shot seeds and fertilizer into the soil, their movements skillful and fluid.

What alarmed him even more was that these once subservient slaves now had the outlines of light chainmail faintly visible beneath their coarse cloth clothing.

Their eyes were firm as they worked, and their every move exuded a heroic air, as if they were ready to go into battle at any moment.

“This is a newly improved wheat variety.” Robin crushed a grain of wheat, the germ glowing with an eerie purple light. “It yields twice as much as ordinary wheat.”

Upon hearing this, the Viscount's thoughts were instantly drawn back to twenty years ago.

At that time, a sudden famine swept across the entire region, leaving countless dead and mournful cries everywhere.

If there had been wheat fields like these back then, perhaps so many people in the West wouldn't have died from food shortages.

With mixed feelings, the Viscount followed Robin to the military camp.

The moment the training ground gates slowly opened, a powerful sense of oppression swept over them, and the viscount's sword involuntarily slipped from his hand and fell to the ground.

A steel jungle of tens of thousands of warriors filled the field of vision, like an indestructible city wall.

The morning light shone on their uniform breastplates, reflecting a dazzling light that stung the eyes.

Even more terrifying was that these warriors were all clad in heavy armor, radiating a chilling killing intent in the sunlight.

"All personnel... heavily armored?" the Viscount muttered incredulously.

Robin chuckled and flicked the bronze bell with his finger.

"Clang—!" The metallic roar echoed through the sky.

In an instant, the formation changed its formation with the precision of a well-oiled machine.

The first three rows of soldiers knelt down with a thud, and the next seven rows thrust their spears out from their shoulders, instantly forming seven layers of deadly gunfire.

The clanging of armor and the rhythm of the forging hammers in the workshop were perfectly synchronized, like a breathtaking war symphony.

“Father thinks…” Robin stroked the buzzing ballistae at the edge of the training ground, a hint of provocation in his eyes, “How many knightly orders would it take to break through such a formation?”

The viscount's gaze fell on a line of small characters engraved on the ballista's base: "Our enemy will never be slow-moving infantry."

He suddenly looked towards the capital, and his mind cleared.

No wonder there has been a constant stream of other envoys' convoys lately. When wheat and steel are combined in such a crazy way, Wilke Territory is no longer a small territory that can be bullied by others, but has become an object of vying for the favor of various forces.

The death knell of the kingdom's old era had already been quietly tolling amidst the ceaseless clanging of the hammer.

(End of this chapter)